


Quantum Ghost, Coast to Coast

by Peapods



Series: To A New and Shiny Place [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Gratuitous Hotel Research, M/M, Original Character(s), Post-SPECTRE, Post-Skyfall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 08:46:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13337631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peapods/pseuds/Peapods
Summary: These are the things that Q Bond now associates with America: shags, honest conversations, and Q.





	Quantum Ghost, Coast to Coast

**Author's Note:**

> There will be two chapters with, unfortunately, no sexy business until the second part. Also, I started writing this before seeing Spectre, so I gloss over a lot of that movie beyond the stuff relevant to my story.

Q and James are right in the middle of a disagreement about how to diffuse a bomb, when the bomb makes the decision for them and detonates.

The line goes quiet and static-y and Q’s heart leaps into his throat so quickly, he has to slug back his cold tea in order not to vomit. The screen in front of him is dark.

“007,” he croaks onto the line. R is right next to him, hand on her ear and ready to call M. The alphabet soup of the thought causes him a moment of hysteria before he firmly takes hold of himself. “Bond, if you can hear me, please respond.”

The screen flickers. A dot appears and Q doesn’t allow the sigh of relief he so thoroughly wants to exhale right now.

R is talking quietly into her mic and Q doesn’t take his eyes off the small green dot on his screen. 

“Bond, whilst your chatter is usually the height of irritation, there are several people here who would like confirmation of your continued existence,” Q manages his best sarcastic voice.

“Existence confirmed, whether I am actually alive is up for debate,” Bond responds, sounding precisely like someone who was too close to an exploding bomb, and there is choked off groan before the line silences again.

“Fantastic, can you get yourself to hospital or do I need to be calling my counterpart at Langley?”

“I’ll let you know when I achieve vertical status.”

There is a general lightening in the room and Q has a moment of disconnect that he is not the only one concerned. People die in their line of work, they do not retire, and no one is exempt from the danger. Yet, when of their own is in danger, there is always the fear. He is not ready to fully examine his own fears.

“I’m mobile, heading to rendezvous,” Bond says.

“Cleaners have been dispatched to deal with local law enforcement. Your orders will be waiting at the rendezvous. Q out.”

“Acknowledged.”

*****

Q is busy rerouting a fairly ambitious hacker to a sex shop’s website when Bond arrives and dumps a twisted meteor of metal on his table. He pauses, eyeing the heap before turning a thoroughly unimpressed look to Bond. Who is smirking. Of course he is.

“I suppose your continued health and wholeness is the price I have to pay,” Q says, turning back to his task. It doesn’t require even half his attention, but he gives the illusion of it as Bond stands to his left. He can smell the agent’s cologne and the hint of antiseptic. “Got away from the medics again?”

“Worriers, the lot of them. I’ve had worse after a bad night of drink.”

“If you’re encountering explosives, you and I must drink in very different pubs,” Q quips.

“We drank in Miami and there were no explosions,” Bond points out.

Q does not point out that the explosions were all entirely metaphorical and _spectacular_. Bond’s tone does enough of that.

“We could test the theory,” Bond says. “I know a place-”

“007, it may have escaped you, but I am actually in the middle of something.”

“Did I say it had to be now?”

“You didn’t have to say anything. Your tone was enough implication.”

“Fair enough,” Bond concedes. He moves to lean on Q’s workstation then, all cool indifference and suave casualness. Q remains focused. He wonders how this hacker will feel about the pouchless briefs Q has just bought for him with his own credit card information. “So are we to confine any extracurriculars to America or abroad in general?”

Q flubs the coding and has to hastily backtrack while glaring at Bond. “If you’re bored, Agent Bond, I believe Moneypenny would be willing to put you to work.”

Q doesn’t know what the man is trying to get at. Flirtation with Moneypenny and a complicated relationship with the previous M were as far as the man went with the domestics. He was watched quite thoroughly wherever he went and unless there was a job here, England was apparently the only place Bond didn’t pull sexual encounters.

Q wondered if he had performance issues when not on a job.

“Moneypenny doesn’t like the way I sort her cabinets.”

“Because she uses the alphabet and your system seems to hinge on how interesting the mission was,” Q says, finishing out his coding with a flourish and turning sharply to Bond. “I can only work with the variables I have, Bond, and every single one of those variables points towards your inability, or disinclination, to pursue anything whilst on British soil. I can only conclude from that data that you are having a go.”

Bond looks amused, confused, and a little irritated. It’s a distressingly attractive look on him.

“Sir,” R interrupts, looking for all the world like she’d rather be doing anything else, “003’s mission is a go. He’s waiting on comms.”

“Thank you, R,” Q says without looking away from Bond. “Have it called up on the screen, please. If that’s all, 007, I have work to do.”

He feels a rush of gleeful satisfaction when he turns away and hits the speaker for the comms. Bond doesn’t interrupt as he greets the other agent. He simply stands there, looking annoyed, before pivoting on his heel to leave.

*****

James steps out of his hotel in a polo and an expensive trousers and immediately revises his decision. He looks painfully out of place. He’s already far too old for the median age of Portland, Maine, but now he definitely looks like he’s never heard of craft beer or organic meat. He curses himself--and the jet lag that had delivered him bleary-eyed the night before.

He changes quickly, putting on a long sleeve henley, to make it look like he was simply chilled, and a pair of jeans, before stepping out again. There’s nothing he can do about the hair or the muscles, looking on another obvious native, but at least he doesn’t scream “would rather be in the Bahamas,” anymore. He doesn’t really need the extra fabric of the henley and pulls up the sleeves. He’s ditched the nice watch and is wearing boots instead of loafers.

He feels perfectly ridiculous, which is fitting as it’s a perfectly ridiculous mission. He knows M is punishing him with milk runs and boredom. He had lasted a grand total of three months away from MI-6 before he had called it quits with Madeleine. She hadn’t been particularly heartbroken and had taken the boat and sailed away with a handsome young thing named Paolo. James had hopped a flight back to London, taking care to get the Aston shipped first, and showed up at M’s personal residence with a suspected terrorist and bid for his old job.

Q hasn’t forgiven him.

If James has any notion of regret over his decisions, it is with regards to Q. After their last tete-a-tete, after the bomb, Spectre had happened and James had, regrettably, lost his mind. Q, of course, had said nothing. There had been no last ditch effort to make him stay, no tears or recriminations. Q had been as consummately professional as he always was. Until James came back.

Q’s brand of punishment is considerably more inconvenient than the usual torture and violence James is used to. Never anything that would put James in danger on a mission, but he has taken to using a battery powered alarm clock rather than his phone and walking to work instead of trying to contend with red lights, late trains, or endless replacement bus services. The latter, he knows, could be coincidence.

None of James’ apologies are particularly well received either, be they the tasteful arrangement of succulents, the chef he’d sent over to cook Q dinner, or the automatic cat feeder that played the “Countdown” theme before every meal. He admits the last one was a bit passive aggressive. 

The succulents had been donated to a particularly high-strung call center tech, the chef reported that Q had handed him a box of macaroni and cheese to fix and refused to eat the bourbon and orange glazed salmon with asparagus risotto, and the cat feeder had been delivered back to him piece by piece with the shipping costs being put on his personal account.

He makes his way down to the harbor. There are no beaches in this part of the city, but the main street along the harbor is positively teeming with locals and tourists alike. He finds a restaurant advertising a back deck and enters. He orders a pint and sits uncomfortably on this establishment’s idea of a bar stool--a bourbon barrel top that’s been sawn in half--and stares out  onto the water. 

“Choosing a restaurant without a clear vantage point, I’m surprised at you,” Q says as he gracefully hoists himself onto the stool opposite. He looks far more at home than he had in Miami. His hair is tousled from the constant wind, and his lightweight windbreaker and canvas shoes fit in perfectly with the other 30-somethings around him. He already has a pint of dark beer with him, about a third finished, which suggests he has been observing James. 

“As I’ve no idea why I’m here, I don’t know what you would have me looking for,” James says, covering his surprise.

“I suppose you may not remember the Louisville mission--”

“I got blown up, I think I’d remember that one,” James interrupts with a smirk.

Q huffs a little, disturbing his fringe, “Forgive me for thinking that would rank rather low on your list of memorable experiences. Suffice it to say, that the incident was not random nor isolated. There have been a slew of small bombings all over the northeast. My counterpart at Langley has discovered that a British shipping company has been making regular deliveries to a Portland warehouse whose weights and claims are consistently awry. MI-6 was brought in to do background on the shipping company,” he pulls a folder from his satchel and pushes it across to James.

James knows the Quantum/Spectre file backwards and forwards. He knows every company, every bank, and every middleman associated with the shadowy group. Looking at the name of the shipping company, he can only surmise that whatever defeats they had suffered in the past decade had not permanently handicapped them. Blofeld was too cunning to have the running of his empire dependant on his continued existence.

“ATF seized a shipment last week based on an anonymous tip and they found almost exactly the same parts that you brought back from the Louisville job.”

“Any correlation in the hits?” James asks, looking through the folder at several blast sites, large and small.

“Both ours and Langley’s analysts are working to find the connection.”

“And we’re here, why?”

“The shipping company, Brighton Tariffs Inc, has offices here and a remote network.”

“I’m the muscle,” James surmises with a smile.

Q is unimpressed, “Yes. Your task is this,” he says pulling out a USB. “Break into their warehouse and find their mainframe, insert this and extract yourself _without_ a firefight. You’ll do me no good if you get caught. This is purely an information gathering mission.”

“That M wants a Double-O on on the off-chance they catch you?”

“Yes,” Q says reluctantly. “I believe yours and the former M’s reports on the group have M jumping at shadows. I'm only here because I need to be in range of the signal. A normal field agent would have sufficed.”

“And then we find you in the harbor choking on motor oil a day later,” James tells him, a sharpness in his voice at Q’s blase attitude.

Q’s only reaction, and his reply, is a carefully raised eyebrow. It speaks volumes. James belatedly remembers that Q knows everything about him.

For once, it is not a comforting thought.

*****

There are no troubles with the infiltration, but there are certainly problems trying to talk to Q after. Earlier, he had, quite unceremoniously, evicted Q from the awful Travelodge MI6 had paid for and brought him over to the penthouse suite he’d booked at the Press. It isn’t quite his usual standard, but it has far more of the amenities he enjoys than the other place he had looked at. He attempts to get Q to join him in the dining room or even on the private terrace for a more intimate dinner, but the other man is resolute, tapping away at things James only halfway understands, R chattering through the bluetooth in his ear.

He sulks through a dinner of local fare and broods over rye cocktail the waitress convinces him to try. He is unused to this level of pure disgruntlement with the current state of affairs. He is necessarily an adaptable person and has actually very rarely gotten his way, but Q’s standoffish attitude has him reaching for explanations beyond the usual.

He taps out a quick text, asking if Q has eaten.

_I had some crisps earlier. They tasted odd and came with some sort of dipping sauce that tasted of vomit._

James winces even as an involuntary snort sneaks out. He orders a meal to be sent to the room along with a bottle of wine and a dessert. He can only guess what Q will like. They’ve shared meals, but Q had revealed nothing about his preferences beyond what was on the plate in front of him. What he does know is that there is a private terrace and a warm breeze that should be very fine that evening.

“Bond, I am _working_ ,” he protests  as James pulls the silent Bluetooth from his ear and closes the laptop--checking that Q isn't in the middle of something.

“You are _overworking_ ,” James corrects him. “I know you've already decrypted and sent over all the data. The information has been gathered. The mission is over and it's time for all good boffins to eat their dinner and get a good night's rest.”

Q’s glare probably rip a hole in the fabric of space-time. One long fingered hand lingers at the edge of the laptop, but his action is halted with the knock on the door. James raises an eyebrow and lets in the room service waiter, who smiles conspiratorially as the smells from his heavily laden cart draw Q forward.

“Out on the terrace, please,” James directs him, relieving the cart of the wine to inspect the label. He pretends not to notice Q’s scrutiny. Q, it seems, has never been taught to dissemble or conceal this kind of outright interest. It is not sexual interest or romantic, it is the interest of one who is wondering at motives, waiting for the other person to give something away. With an easy smile, James meets his eyes briefly before following the waiter. “Come, your food will get cold.”

Q follows.

The air outside is welcome. It’s warm without being stifling and breezy without being cold. Q even pulls off his cardigan, showing off the short sleeves of his button up. He’s adorable.

He looks rather pleased at the food when the waiter lifts the top of the tray and places it before him. James had ordered the rabbit on a hunch and it pays off as he watches Q scrape at the dish almost reverently. He savors each bite and takes conservative sips at the wine that James swirls around so he can watch Q’s face through the legs. But it’s easy to gauge Q’s skepticism. He won’t be so easy to get into bed tonight and James knows it’s his own fault.

“A creditable effort,” Q says as he finishes off his toasted walnut tart. “But I do so wonder about your endgame.”

It is only that the mission is fresh on his mind that allows James to correctly guess at Q’s allusion.

“I rarely posit an endgame outside a mission,” James answers.

“I see,” Q adjusts his glasses and downs the rest of his wine. “Well, then goodnight, Agent Bond.” He rises and returns to the room so quickly that James can’t even reach out to catch his wrist.

Perhaps, he has underestimated Q’s displeasure with his recent defection.

*****

When Bond slides into bed, Q uses every trick he knows to maintain the illusion of sleep. He shifts--as one must when joined in bed without being accustomed--but quickly settles. It is a large bed and whatever honesty or affection Q had foolishly hoped for had been thoroughly sullied by Bond’s words at dinner.

_The dinner he ordered and had brought up to you._

**For nefarious purposes.**

_You only supposed that he categorized you as a mission._

**And what else was I supposed to infer from that comment?**

_That he had no endgame and therefore did not know how the night with you would end._

“I’ve said something to offend you,” Bond says in a low tone of voice, interrupting Q’s argument with himself.

Q doesn’t acknowledge him but the sharp inhale through his nose must give him away. Still, he does not speak.

“I don’t have an endgame, Q,” James says. Q, turned away on his side, lets his eyebrows contract, but says nothing. “Yes, I’ve been trained to cater to someone in order to achieve what I want, but you’ve been trained to question the motives of anyone who gives you anything remotely resembling what you want and I think that’s where we run into a problem.”

“Because your motives are entirely unselfish?” Q queries, surprising even himself with the waspish, bitter tone of his voice.

“Are you so angry that I left after that whole mess?”

Q cannot stay laying down and hauls himself up and over. “Do you honestly think me so naive? Bond, I have had few to no illusions about the nature of our… interactions, I am more irritated with your presumption, as usual. What gives you even the slightest confidence that I would be willing for things to continue as they once did? I’ve no intention of resuming our relations if your unstated goal is to use this as some sort of emotional leverage to get what you want.”

It is not a thorough repudiation of his arguments in Miami, but it is an acknowledgement that even the most emotionally disconnected encounters will result in some entanglement. Q does not like to be taken advantage of. Q does not like to play favorites. James realizes that Q has allowed him to take advantage, that despite his best efforts, James _has_ become his favorite. He’s never had the detachment his M had been so good at.

“If I had never taken you to bed, if we had gone on as agent and quartermaster, you don’t think you would have helped me?”

Q has no answer. 

James turns over, abandons the conversation, ignores the crinkle-crackle of his heart.

Q is right. They are in too deep already.

*****

They return to England separately--Q has a stop-off in Langley--and it leaves James bereft and full of bad humor. Q had not been entirely right when he’d said that James did no pulling while on the island. Rather, he had a few discrete persons whom he used for assignations whilst recovering from bullets and torture. Off for a few days and still no sign of Q, James finds himself calling one of them.

Ava arrives only when she wants to. She is almost always late and it is something James finds endlessly endearing because she never _means_ to. He always adds a half-hour to any estimated arrival time.

She whirls in as she usually does, throwing her jacket on the coat rack and pulling off her Wellies with a squelch.

“Christ you’d thought it was Noah’s bloody flood out there the way people on the Tube were going on about it,” she gripes, already on her way to the kitchen. James had already poured her a lager, which she raises in a silent toast before downing half. “Mind you, these are the same wankers who tittered and scoffed when it was Yorkshire all those years ago. So, the Missus give you the ol’ heave ho?”

This is both why James called Ava and why he regrets calling Ava.

“It didn’t work out. We wanted different things.”

“And what about Himself, the stars in your eyes, the cream in your coffee, the Dairylea Dunker in your packed lunch?”

James makes a note not to use those particular painkillers again as apparently his mouth ran away with him the last time.

“Doghouse?” she surmises.

“Quite,” James answers. 

“Do you want your Agony Aunt session now or after the shag?”

“Ava--”

“Oh please, don’t try to convince me you wanted me over here for anything less than a shag-and-nag.”

They shag. Ava considers him little more than a sex toy--hot, warm, requiring little from her--and it works for their dynamic. She packs a one-hitter afterwards and doesn’t share.

“Go on then, tell Auntie Ava what’s got your knickers in a twist over your moon and stars,” she says.

“You’re awful.”

“And yet you’re still dying to tell me. You have any of those little pills left? You were quite keen to spill the beans on those.”

James huffs and rearranges himself on the bed, happy for once with the padded headboard. “He thinks I’m using whatever is between us as leverage to get what I want.”

“Newsflash, most relationships are like that.”

“Professionally speaking,” James clarifies.

“Again, nothing new. I’m fairly certain that’s a well founded tradition in this country despite my only being second generation.”

“I don’t know what he wants from me.”

“Get your shit together, James. _Ask_ him. But you’re a fool if you go into that conversation without knowing what _you_ want.”

James has climbed up shear vertical faces of 150 story buildings. He has dangled from great heights by only his fingertips. He has been faced with death and oblivion and resurrection and nothing has ever felt like the gentle hands that breach his chest and pull him and his heart into a place he has never known. Those fingers, gentle and calloused, take his heart and lift it into a galaxy of burning and he knows that what he wants is _Q_.


End file.
